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If I thought the harshness of a two-sentence text was tough to bear, the reality of two pages about why we would not work, could not work, and how it had all just been some little sex fantasy and she was sorry, truly, truly sorry to disappoint, but if I were to contact her again, lawyers would be contacted.
Then to top it off was the crisp, freshly written check, with the name left blank, because she didn’t even know my name, for the amount of one million dollars.
That was the price she was putting on my heart, which was now shattered into a million pieces and strewn across the floor. But the check did help me in one way. It helped me feel angry. It helped me feel the burning rage of injustice inside me.
I might be in love with her, but in writing that check, Willow made me a whore. An expensive one, but a whore nonetheless. And I was a lot of things. I never judge anyone who sells themselves, but our love was so much more than that.
I had seen enough movies and read enough books to know that I was supposed to tear up that check with indignation, that I was supposed to ride along on my moral high horse with my broke ass looking cute all the way up there.
Except I was angry and I’m not stupid. I knew a million dollars would change my life. So, I cashed it. And while I longed to go on a huge shopping spree, instead I enrolled at college for fall to study business and I let Landon know that I would finish at the club after the summer.
I didn’t tell anyone else about the money, for lots of reasons, but the main one was shame. They would either think bad of me--or worse, well of me. But either way, I would use the money to change my life. I would show Willow Elizabeth Rutherford that I might be a whore, but I was a smart one, and that she was the one who had missed out.
Landon took the news well. I walked into his office, my heart pounding with anticipation. The atmosphere in the dimly lit room felt like a mix of excitement and secrecy. A worn-out leather couch sat against one wall, its cracks revealing years of use. A desk cluttered with papers and empty coffee cups stood as a silent witness to the busy nights the place had seen.
A framed poster of an exotic dancer adorned the peeling wallpaper, her sultry gaze captivating anyone who dared to look. I couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of connection to her, knowing that we both embraced our sexuality in a world that tries so hard to suppress it.
The air was heavy with the scent of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, mingling together to create an intoxicating aroma. It reminded me of the late nights I had spent dancing under neon lights, lost in the rhythm of the music and the energy of the crowd.
I glanced at the mirror hanging on the back of the door, catching a glimpse of myself. My reflection stared back at me, hair tousled from hours of teasing. Makeup slightly smudged from sweat and exertion. But in this moment, I feel more alive than ever before because, finally, I can feel an end in sight. And it’s one of my choosing. I wouldn’t have to settle for the future that Pearl ended up with.
I’m short and direct, but I tell Landon that I’m giving him a couple of months’ notice, so I think we can end on good terms. He agrees that we can and says that he appreciates that. Unasked questions linger in the air, but I don’t feel the need to volunteer any more information.
He leans forward, though, with those dreamy blues, and asks me softly, “You gonna be okay, Lola? Because if you need anything--if you’re in trouble--I can help.”
It’s Landon’s genuine concern that pushes me to tell him just a little more. “I’m going back to school. It’s time. I can’t do this forever. I got a chance and I just think I should take it. Try and sit that side of the desk for a change—with more clothes on.” I grin and he smirks.
“You belong on either side of this desk, probably over it too on some occasions, clothing optional. But good. I am proud of you. If you need anything, you call me, okay? This place is special to me, but it isn’t my only venture in town. Maybe I have a better fit for you, when the time comes.”
“Maybe you do, Landon, but either way . . . I’ll be sad to say goodbye to you and this place.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’ll be gone for good. It’s still one of the best-stocked bars this side of the river.”
“I will pass on to Pearl your high praise.” I grin as I stand, and he does too. A second passes. Do we hug, shake hands, or go for the side cheek kiss? Instead, Landon shrugs, with his soft smile, and sits back down.
“I don’t like goodbyes anyway. Get out of here.” I go to leave. As the door closes, Landon calls after me, “And you still gotta put on the best shows! I ain’t paying you for half-assed booty shaking!” he hollers, in his best leery strip guy voice. I laugh as I head to the stage, the exit countdown on. I keep my heart in an armored box, never showing the faintest hint of just how broken it is, underneath the steel cage.
17
Willow
Isit alone in my apartment, surrounded by the remnants of our love that once bloomed. The air is heavy with sadness and neglect, mirroring the state of my heart. Each corner seems to hold memories of laughter and joy that have faded away.
The walls, once painted with vibrant colors, now bear the marks of weariness. It’s as if they too have absorbed the weight of my tears and silently echo my pain. Dusty shelves display trinkets that we collected together, each serving as a painful reminder of what we have lost. Or of what I have lost.
A sense of emptiness pervades every inch of this place. The couch where we cuddled feels cold and unwelcoming, like a stranger I no longer recognize. It’s hard to believe that just weeks ago, warmth and love filled these rooms. Now, all that remains is an overwhelming feeling of loneliness and despair.
I cry for the loss of a love that was so beautiful, yet so fragile. An impossible love. My heart aches for the touch that used to ignite sparks within me, now replaced by the icy grip of knowing that it was because of me. I did this.
The words from my letter to Lola play over and over in my head. I went hard; I was cruel. And with every word I wrote, I felt a stab in my heart. But I had wanted to make her angry. To make Lola feel rage, so she would take the money and move on. So she would build a life without me and at least one of us could be happy. Because all I could feel was misery.
My mother, who had never been in my apartment, was around every few days now. She ad hstarted to remove every remnant of Lola. Well, the ones she could see, the ones that weren’t imprinted in my head. In my heart. The ones that played on a loop every single day.
I’d lost weight and my skin looked grey, and my hair seemed greasy no matter how much I washed it. And as often as my mother tried to get me all nice and pretty, it never really looked right.
Work is the only place I can shine, the only thing that matters because I’ve given up everything else. I can’t fail now.
But I find myself constantly thinking about Lola, stalking her almost, in my head. Running through her day, her routine, wondering if anything has changed. Maybe she quit her job, maybe she moved, maybe, maybe, maybe. I have no idea and no right at all to know. This is my punishment for my selfishness.
